I think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home

quickly," replied her mother cheerfully.

"Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should

die, it would be my fault." And Jo dropped down beside the bed in

a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly

condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for

being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

"It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have,

and then it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I

do? What shall I do?" cried poor Jo, in despair.

"Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never

think it is impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March,

drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek

so tenderly that Jo cried even harder.

"You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as

If I could do anything when I'm in a passion. I get so savage, I

could hurt anyone and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do something

dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me.

Oh, Mother, help me, do help me!"

"I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember

this day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know

another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far

greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer

them. You think your temper is the worst in the world, but mine

used to be just like it."

"Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!" And for the

moment Jo forgot remorse in surprise.

"I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only

succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my

life, Jo, but I have learned not to show it, and I still hope to

learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years

to do so."

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well

was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest

reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence

given her. The knowledge that her mother had a fault like

hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and

strengthened her resolution to cure it, though forty years seemed

rather a long time to watch and pray to a girl of fifteen.

"Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together

and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people

worry you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother

than ever before.

"Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my

lips, and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will,

I just go away for a minute, and give myself a little shake for

being so weak and wicked," answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a

smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's disheveled hair.

"How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me,

for the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about, and the

more I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's

feelings and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee

dear."

"My good mother used to help me . . ."

"As you do us . . ." interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

"But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and

for years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess

my weakness to anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good

many bitter tears over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I

never seemed to get on. Then your father came, and I was so happy

that I found it easy to be good. But by-and-by, when I had four

little daughters round me and we were poor, then the old trouble

began again, for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very

much to see my children wanting anything."

"Poor Mother! What helped you then?"

"Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or

complains, but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully

that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and

comforted me, and showed me that I must try to practice all the